


London, 1974

by OhGeeze



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Inspired by Music, Leather Kink, London, M/M, Marijuana, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Drugs, Songfic, The Flesh Curtains, Time Travel, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhGeeze/pseuds/OhGeeze
Summary: What Morty was going to do wasn’t exactly going behind Rick’s back, but in Morty’s case (or defense? Morty wasn’t sure which one made the teeny, tiny amount of guilt that he felt about leaving his dimension easier to ignore), Rick had given Morty his own portal gun for his 17th birthday, so, really, Morty could place the blame on Rick for Morty’s actions.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	London, 1974

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is going to be (at least) 4 chapters and this entire work is a giant self-indulgent dream and also an excuse to write about something that I've been meaning to do for a while. While Morty is almost 18 in this fic, I've still flagged it as underage just to make sure as I don't want to make anyone feel awkward. 
> 
> As always, I don't own anything (though, I would appreciate the paper that Morty uses, but sadly, that doesn't exist. Boo.).

What Morty was going to do wasn’t _exactly_ going behind Rick’s back, but in Morty’s case (or defense? Morty wasn’t sure which one made the teeny, tiny amount of guilt that he felt about leaving his dimension easier to ignore), Rick _had_ given Morty his own portal gun for his 17th birthday, so, really, Morty could place the blame on Rick for Morty’s actions. Morty checked (it was a double check, if he was being serious with himself) that he had everything he needed for his solo adventure.

 _Old currency?_ Morty grabbed his wallet from his jeans pocket and opened it up. _Check._

 _Appropriate attire?_ He looked in the mirror in his bedroom and winked at himself. _Absolutely without a shadow of a fucking doubt, check._

Edible? He patted the saran wrapped weed brownie in his front pocket. _Check._

 _Ticket?_ He pulled out his wallet, and from it, took a piece of ordinary looking paper. After closely examining it, he then carefully folded it and, after putting it back in his wallet, he pocketed the wallet. _Check._

He’d been wanting to do this adventure, this journey for so, so long and he was finally going to live one of his dreams that he’s had for years. Anticipation, nervousness, and excitement coursed through his veins. He pulled out the portal gun from his leather jacket, keyed in the proper settings (and checking to make sure that they were in fact, correct), and stepped into the green, swirly portal. Morty landed in an alley where he knew (or at least assumed) that no one would be and put the portal gun back. He looked around and grinned at the spray paint graffiti of a little, yellow bricked triangle with a black top hat, short, wire-like black arms and legs, and a single eye. Unlike other versions of this triangle that Morty had come across on his adventures with Rick, this one was smoking a joint and its singular eye bloodshot. “Well played, Sixer.” Morty snickered. Putting his hands in his pockets, he turned right where he came to the main road and followed the mass of people leading to his destination: Wembley Stadium.

He easily passed through the gate (that ‘ordinary’ piece of paper doing its job perfectly by pretending to be an exact replica of a concert ticket). Morty made his way to the rail and found a place in the dead center of the rail so he had the best possible view of the stage. He checked his watch and noted that there wasn’t much time before the opening act for this segment of the day was going to take the stage. He did some quick math, and took out his edible. After consuming the edible, he figured that it would likely hit his system within the hour, which would mean he’d be fantastically baked by the time the real reason why he came back to 1974 London happened. Distracted in his thoughts and musings about being so close to his dream, he was brought back to the present when he heard thunderous applause and scattered screams (especially from a group of 20 somethings, mostly made up of women to the left of Morty).

Morty didn’t really understand what the fuss was about until he realized that he’d not only seen the members of this band, the opening act, before, but he was, in fact, related to one of them. A significantly younger looking Birdperson picked up a guitar and stood in front of a mic stand. Squanchy, who looked the same, save for the fact that his fur was well groomed, walked over the drum kit, with a smirk on his face. He started a beat with the bass drum that the audience quickly followed, thusly becoming the pulse, the heartbeat of their applause. Morty found himself seduced by the pulse and momentarily cursed that he should’ve checked that this dimension he was in wasn’t one that he’d find a Rick in, especially a younger Rick as Morty hadn’t had much exposure to the younger version of his grandpa so he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, for better or for worse. Younger Rick took center stage, grabbed the bass guitar, swung it around so it rested gently on his back, and, like Birdperson, stood in front of a mic stand. _Well, here goes nothing, I guess._ Morty thought, allowing his eyes to look up at the decades younger version of Rick with intrigue and with somethi-. _No._ Morty left that train at the station before it could derail itself, but those impossibly long legs clad in tight leather pants and the blue tank that only covered Rick’s stomach down to where those delec- leather pants began was certainly difficult for Morty to ignore.

“What the fuccccccccccck, is up Wembley?!” Rick screamed into the mic.

The screams crescendoed and Morty heard himself scream louder than he anticipated he was going to. He justified it since it wasn’t every day that he went back in time to a dimension to see his favorite band play at Wembley, and also end up seeing a version of his grandpa’s band that not only was still around in 1974, but also was popular enough to play at Wembley. If anything, his Rick rarely talked about his time being part of a band with Birdperson and Squanchy, so Morty could use this as fodder to find out more information about the band.

“We are The Flesh Curtains, ya f-f-f-f-fuckers!” Rick flipped his long, feathery, far-more-blue-than-grey hair. “Are y-”

“F-Fuck me, and raw me, Rick Sanchez!” Someone on Morty’s right screamed, emphasizing the ‘chez’ in an almost obscene way.

Rick hummed into the mic. Squanchy laughed and added in the high hat to his pulse drumbeat. Birdperson, feeling the vibe, played alternating chords that sounded just downright sexy. Catcalls peppered around Morty’s location on the rail and Morty couldn’t help but shake his head, a slight smile threatening to break across his face. Apparently, Rick really always did have that sort of animalistic magnetism about him, age be damned. Rick glanced over in the direction of where the declaration of decidedly not vanilla intercourse occurred and winked. As his eyes swept back to where they’d been earlier, Rick caught Morty’s eyes and for one nanosecond, time stood still. Those endless, icy blue pools bore into Morty’s brownish, hazel eyes. “Oh geeze,” Morty muttered, ignoring the shiver that his body had rudely decided to do in response to that moment.

“Well, I can’t promise any of that, baby, but, at least one of you fuckers are going to get lucky tonight." Rick's hips, moving in time with the beat, thrust against his mic stand. "That can certainly be promised.” Rick licked his lips, still fake fucking the mic stand. “Alright! Time to get this show on the road; there will be plenty of time later for some raunchyness cause we’re at fucking Wembley! This one is called ‘The National Anthem.’” The audience went nuts and Rick pulled his bass around from where it was positioned on his back, which was apparently the cue for Squanchy and Birdperson as they stopped the drumbeat pulse and sexy alternating chords, respectfully. “One! Two! Three! Squanch it!” Squanchy banged his drumsticks together as he counted off. Rick opened the song with a heavy and powerful bass line and Morty sucked in a breath. Like, sure, he _had_ heard Rick play before, but it wasn’t anything super formal; it was the occasional chord, a few measures of some random ass song, or something that he’d improvised. But this? This was just something Morty didn’t know he needed until this exact minute. The sight of Birdperson just nodding his head in his own way to Rick’s bass line. The fond look that Squanchy was giving both Rick and Birdperson was just so pure and loving. And Rick? Rick was in an element that Morty had never seen him in before. Rick was totally, completely lost in the bass line. His eyes were closed and his hips and shoulders moved in violent way with every downbeat, which was in stark contrast to the way he was moving against the mic stand just moments earlier. It was powerful. It was downright magical. Morty exhaled forcefully, his heart beating violently up against his ribcage like his heart wanted to break free.

 _Rick is absolutely beautiful like this._ A beat passed and Morty realized what he had said in his head. His mouth went dry. _Oh geeze! It’s, it’s the weed! That’s all._ He snuck a glance at his watch and silently cursed time for not moving quicker, but only for him, because according to his watch, that edible wouldn’t be fully metabolized for at least another 20 minutes.

_Well, fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave kudos and comments, if you'd like. :DD Check me out on Twitter: @c137trash


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